


The Most Dangerous Game

by aravenwood



Series: Whumptober 2020 [23]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27246433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood
Summary: Jaskier is on the run from a dangerous hunter and his cruel games. All he can do is hide and hope that Geralt will find him in time.Written for the Whumptober 2020 prompt "hunting season".
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947343
Comments: 2
Kudos: 79
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	The Most Dangerous Game

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hope you're all well!
> 
> The moment I saw a prompt for "hunting season", I thought of The Most Dangerous Game. Admittedly I've never been able to finish that story, I've always found the writing style a little bit dry and the start a little slow, but I do enjoy the idea. It's dark, twitsted...and perfect for Whumptober! *evil laugh*
> 
> Ahem, anyway...enjoy! It's been a little bit since I've written Jaskier whump but I was reading some anxiety!Jaskier fics and it put me in the mood to whump him (also side note, if anyone has any recs for other anxiety!Jaskier fics, please let me know!)

“Where are you, bardling? There’s no point in hiding, I will find you,” calls the hunter. A human, of course, because the worst monsters are always the ones that look the least beastly. 

Jaskier bites down on his knuckles to hold back a terrified sob, not daring to move a muscle. The hunter is so close that Jaskier can smell him; it’s a stench of sweat mixed with blood, the same blood which runs from a shallow gash on Jaskier’s right arm and stains his clothes an ugly shade of maroon. He wants to curl up, wants to bury his face in his arms and pretend that this isn’t happening but he knows that the slightest of movements will cause the pile of branches and leaves he’s currently hidden beneath to rustle, giving away his position to the man who wants to kill him.

So he holds himself steady, every muscle tense to hold in frightened tremors. He hardly dares to even breathe, keeping each one shallow and only daring to exhale when the footsteps are quieter. It doesn’t help that he can’t see the hunter, his view obscured in favour of a more complete hiding spot. In some ways he’s glad for it but it also has his heart racing rabbit-fast as he struggles to keep track of the man.

Please hurry Geralt, he thinks. The witcher should be looking for him after waking up in their shared camp and finding Jaskier’s bedroll empty. With his witcher senses, he should be close by. Waiting for the right time to strike.

Or maybe the hunter was smart. Maybe he covered up their tracks somehow, masked their scent so that even the strongest sense of smell can’t pick it up. Or maybe Geralt thinks he’s just wandered off as he’s sometimes prone to doing. Maybe he’s not even looking.

No. He can’t think like that, not if he wants to hold back the tears and shuddering breaths. Geralt will come, he’ll come and he’ll kill the hunter, and he’ll tell Jaskier that it’s ok and it’s safe to come out. Maybe he’ll even-.

A branch snaps a mere foot from his head and he can’t hold back a gasp. The moment the sound escapes he knows he’s fucked up and he hates himself for it, has a split second moment of cursing himself before a large, bloodied hand breaks into his hiding spot and drags him out by the hair. He screams at the stabbing pain in his scalp and swings his good arm wildly, fingers clawing at the hunter’s face. 

The hunter is unfazed. “There you are,” he says almost sweetly, then throws Jaskier to the ground. 

There’s no chance for Jaskier to even try and escape as a heavy booted foot plants itself on his chest the moment he tries to scramble away. He cries out as it presses down on his ribs, forcing more and more air from his lungs as they’re crushed. “Please,” he croaks, his voice choked from a lack of air.

“Quiet,” the hunter orders and draws a sword from a scabbard on his back. He takes his time examining it, twisting it this way and that so that the scant sunlight catches on the sharp edges and grinning as Jaskier stares at it with wide, fearful eyes. It’s smaller than Geralt’s swords and should be less intimidating, but Geralt has never threatened him with one of the blades before and so he has no idea what it’s like to be on the receiving end of it.

This sword however, he’s already felt its bite. The slice on his arm can attest to that. 

He can do nothing but watch as the sword is lowered until the very point rests against the soft flesh of his neck. “Don’t do this, please don’t do this. The witcher, Geralt, he’ll kill you for this. And he’ll make it slow, he’ll make you suffer,” he spits, hoping with all of his might that the threat might make the hunter reconsider.

But all it does is make him angry. The sword presses more forcibly into his skin and he can feel a trickle of blood on his neck as it pierces his skin. It should hurt, he thinks, but he just feels numb. Shock, he thinks, and he’s honestly a little grateful for it - at least he won’t feel the killing blow.

The foot on his chest shifts lower, the heavy weight now on the soft flesh of his stomach. He can’t breathe and he flaps, back trying to arch as his body fights for air. The boot only presses down harder, Jaskier’s ribs creaking with the pressure. All of the numbness is gone, replaced with a stabbing pain as ribs crack under the weight.

“By the time he finds you, I’ll be long gone. He will have to live knowing that I am alive and he failed to save you,” the hunter snarls. A smirk forming on his lips, he trails the edge of the sword from Jaskier’s throat to his chest, leaving a thin trail of blood in its wake. He halts the movement directly over Jaskier’s heart. “Goodbye, bardling.”

And the blade begins to sink into his flesh, getting closer and closer to his heart. He can’t fight, can’t move, can’t do anything but lie there and wait for-.

There’s a flash of a sword and then the hunter’s head drops from his shoulders.

Geralt.

The witcher’s eyes are wild and beastly, but they soften the moment Jaskier’s eyes meet his. “Jaskier,” he says softly. For a moment all he does is stare, but then he finally registers the sword sticking out of Jaskier’s chest and pulls it out, careful to avoid doing any further damage.

Jaskier’s head spins with relief and blood loss. “Geralt, knew you’d come,” he mumbles, offering Geralt a weak smile. “Um…I may need some help.”

But even as he says this, Geralt is already on his knees and pressing a rag to the bloody chest wound, ignoring the hisses and cries of protest from the bard. “I’ll try and stop the bleeding and then I’ll stitch you up. You’ll be fine,” he grunts, almost his usual tone if not for a slight wobble in his words.

He hesitates, eyes darting to the left as he seems to throw something over in his mind. And when he speaks, he does it so quietly that Jaskier almost misses it. “You did well surviving. If he was only now going to kill you, you must have hid well. So…you did well.”

Jaskier almost convinces himself that he’s hallucinating, a side effect of the blood loss. But then Geralt even offers him a smile, albeit a small one, and he can’t help but return it. “Thanks, Geralt. You didn’t do so bad yourself. Nice job with the…beheading thing. A nice touch.”

Geralt snorts and says nothing, but the smile lingers on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
